


super paradise i held on to (but i'll settle for a ghost)

by softfen



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Crush, flashback to when they were in the clubhouse!, i mean its just the losers club, idk if its any good but i tried!, its in context tho im not whippin it out for fun, its projecting onto richie toizer hours boys, just richie reflecting, kinda a character study? i tried to at least, mm richie is Foole, possibly?, set after the events of it chapter 2!!! u have been warned for spoilers!, ughhh the ending killllled me so i had to write this, warning for usage of the f slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 15:36:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20623424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softfen/pseuds/softfen
Summary: The audience laughs, the sound echoing off the cavernous marble ceilings of the halls. Richie can acutely feel a drop of sweat making its way down his neck; he fumbles for the complimentary bottle of water and takes a swig. His hand shakes as he screws the lid back on, and he plasters another wide smile on his face, showing his teeth. As his glasses slip down his nose, he squints into the audience to find a point to focus on.Gulping, he opens his mouth again, prepared to launch into another one of his patented the-fun-is-just-beginning stories, when his eyes snag on an object held in the hand of one of the chuckling audience members.It’s an asthma puffer.Or, it's three months after Richie left Derry for the second time, and his hands still shake at the sight of a pill bottle.





	super paradise i held on to (but i'll settle for a ghost)

**Author's Note:**

> aight folks i literally watched it chapter 2 today and it sent me straight into a depressive episode. but they finally said gay rights! reddie WAS endgame! and naturally, to cope with my feelings, i wrote fic. it's probably trash fic, but it's fic nonetheless.  
apologies for the typos, grammar errors, etc. i literally cannot find it within myself to edit rn, so just ignore them ty.  
i literally can't remember much from the book and/or the first movie, so sorry if some details are inaccurate - i tried to make this as canon compliant as possible.  
ofc this is richie dealing with eddie's death. if yall clicked, you should have already watched the movie. if not, go watch it asap! its a good sequel.  
title is from glass animal's this side of paradise, the fleetwood mac song mentioned in here is gypsy!  
ok happy reading yall!

“And so, I walk out into the dining room, and I say to my girlfriend: ‘Well, what do you expect, darling, I’m not called Trashmouth for no reason!’"

The audience laughs, the sound echoing off the cavernous marble ceilings of the halls. Richie can acutely feel a drop of sweat making its way down his neck; he fumbles for the complimentary bottle of water and takes a swig. His hand shakes as he screws the lid back on, and he plasters another wide smile on his face, showing his teeth. As his glasses slip down his nose, he squints into the audience to find a point to focus on. 

Gulping, he opens his mouth again, prepared to launch into another one of his patented the-fun-is-just-beginning stories, when his eyes snag on an object held in the hand of one of the chuckling audience members.

It’s an asthma puffer.

Richie’s throat suddenly closes up, and his hands tremble so violently that he drops the bottle. It rolls across the stage before landing on the carpeted floor with a dull thud, but it’s all background noise to Richie. He’s fixated on the puffer, so blue, so like-

There’s a cough, and the audience begins to murmur like a hive of bees. Richie laughs and pulls at the collar of his shirt, fanning himself with his left hand while the right pushes his glasses back up his slippery nose. He attempts to speak, to play off his silence as a joke, but all that comes out is a croak. The lights glare down on him. The bead of sweat trickles down his back.

Suddenly, his manager is there, gripping him firmly by the elbow and leading him off the stage. Distantly, Richie can hear the MC apologising for the abrupt ending and thanking the audience for coming, but all he can focus on is the rapid pace of his own breathing. His manager is whispering into his ear and guiding him firmly down a series of hallways, but Richie’s sight becomes blurry even though he has his glasses on and he can hear his heartbeat in his ears and his fingertips and his lungs are  _ screaming- _

“Richie!”

He gasps, head breaking through the water of his panic. The room is bright, lit up with fluorescent lights while other comedians prepare for their turn in front of mirrored vanities. There’s no looks spared towards him; the others are used to his antics, and if they aren’t, they would have heard about his recent failures to perform as well as he used to. He focuses on his manager’s concerned face as he sits on the garishly orange couch opposite him, the deep furrow of Mark’s brow. Wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, he clears his throat and forces his mouth into a wobbly smile.

“Richie, that’s the fourth time since you got back from your break,” Mark says, flagging down an assistant to give Richie another bottle of water. “I know you said that you needed time, but there’s only so many excuses I can give the execs about your behaviour before they start asking more questions.”

Richie accepts the bottle of water and tries to open it. His hands are still shaking. “I know, I know. I’m trying, Mark, it’s just really hard to put things behind me when I’m working all the time, and I have to prepare new material for the new round as well, plus my Mom’s been sick, and this fucking waterbottle won’t  _ fucking open _ -”

He throws it across the room. It strikes the wall and bursts, water splattering over the vanities and floor. The room’s chatter stops, and eyes swivel around to focus on him. Richie feels like a pinned butterfly under all of the stares. He wants to crawl out of his skin. He wants to find a place far away from the light and the people.

Mark breaks the silence with a loud laugh. “Ah, Richie, never a dull moment, right?” He turns to face the other people in the room, a winning grin stretched across his face. “Sorry guys, we were just discussing some things about his next show. As you’ve probably guessed, he’s not one for being passive!”

The onlookers titter, giving Richie one last look-over, before turning back to what they were doing. Richie lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slides down the couch. Taking his glasses off, he rubs at his eyes and groans.

“Go home, Richie,” Mark says, giving him a sympathetic look. “I’ll see what I can do about getting you a break from all of this, but no promises, especially when you up and left a few months ago.”

Richie nods and mumbles out a thanks. He gets up and stumbles out of the room with the intent to get back to his penthouse as quickly as possible. 

The valets are snappy with delivering his car to him, something that he thanks God for as he jumps into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the carpark. Fingers flicking across the dashboard, he presses the button to turn on the stereo, eyes focused on the traffic ahead of him. Stevie Nick’s voice floats out of the speakers, crooning about nostalgia and half-formed dreams. Richie gasps a little as he registers the lyrics, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. He shakes his head as tears form in his eyes.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck _ .” Richie pulls off the road and onto the dirt beside it.

Cars whoosh past him as he cradles his head into his hands, palms digging into his eye sockets in an attempt to stop the tears from forming. The seatbelt digs into his chest, preventing him from curling into himself and making him into as small as he used to be, curled together with Eddie in that hammock.

It was summer of 1990, a sweltering affair that had Mike wearing a stained white singlet and Bill covered in copious amounts of sunscreen to prevent his fair skin from burning. Stan was vegetating in the corner of the shack, well away from the sunlight streaming through the trapdoor hole, his normally-pristine button-up spotched with sweat and his curly hair matted to his forehead. Bev, back in Derry for the break after spending most of the year in Portland, lay on the swept wooden floor and played with the new necklaces looped around her neck. Ben sat on a chair, teeth worrying away at his lip as he gazed at Bev before shaking himself and returning to his sketch. Dust mites rose up from the slightest disturbance from any of the Losers, spiralling and drifting aimlessly in the late afternoon light. 

Despite the heat, Richie and Eddie had remained in the position that they had been in since the clubhouse’s construction - curled up together on the hammock, legs tangled together. The ten-minute rule didn’t last for long; combined with the rest of the Loser’s disinterest in taking a turn, Richie and Eddie had claimed it for themselves. However, instead of one head at each end and tormenting each other with their smelly feet, Eddie’s head rested on Richie’s shoulder as they read the newest edition of The Phantom. They didn’t mind the sensation of sweat-slick skin and the occasional fluttering of hair when the other exhaled too forcefully - well, maybe Eddie didn’t.

Richie sure did.

It wasn’t even that big of an issue. Richie could deal with Eddie’s closeness, Eddie’s legs against his, Eddie’s slight fidgeting with his fanny pack as he read the comic. By now, he was well used to the swooping in his stomach whenever he saw Eddie, the burning when Eddie’s skin touched his, the desire to be funnier, brighter,  _ better  _ around Eddie. Contrary to popular belief, Richie wasn’t stupid. He knew the signs. 

He knew exactly how he felt about Eddie. It doesn’t mean that he liked it.

After being outcasted from the arcade by Bowers and his stupid fucking liar of a cousin, it was hard to think about Eddie in any way that didn’t immediately cause a hot curling of deep shame and guilt in his gut. After all, Eddie was so pristine and clean and proper - Richie was the complete opposite, with his clouded glasses and inappropriate jokes and unwashed face. It was hard to see himself as anything but a corrupting influence on Eddie’s life.

At this point, Richie had gotten used to hiding it. He supposed that’s the one thing Ben and him had in common - a talent at concealing their true desires. It was probably worse for Ben, though - at least he doesn’t have to see Eddie with a girl. Richie had gotten used to possessing Eddie all for himself, whether it be on the hammock or sitting at the cafeteria table during lunch. It may hurt, knowing that Eddie would probably spit in his face if he found out that Richie was, as Bowers put it, a dirty fag, but Richie wasn’t selfless enough to detach himself from him just yet. Until college, he could pretend that they’re living in a bubble and that there’s a sliver of a chance that Eddie may reciprocate. Until then, he can hog Eddie’s attention and vie for his approval without any consequences.

That’s what made him elbow Eddie in the ribs, prompting an irritated yelp and a punch. “Richie, what the fuck?”

Richie grinned, snatching the comic out of Eddie’s hand and tossing it into the depths of the clubhouse. He then turned onto his side to reach under the hammock, balancing precariously on the edge lest the thing overturn. “That’s old news, Eds. Mom brought this back from Portland after visiting her brother - he didn’t want it anymore, so he let her give it to me!”

Richie brought out the latest Walkman, the case gleaming with the light only rarely-used items have. Eddie’s eyes lit up, and he attempted to grab it from Richie’s hands. Richie laughed, stretching up and holding it just above his flailing arms. Eddie cursed and shoved him out of the hammock. He landed on the ground with a thunk, his glasses jolting off his face. 

“Eddie!” Richie whined, patting the ground for his glasses. Shoving them back onto his face, he got up and rubbed his behind with a pout on his lips. “Eds, why would you do such a thing to me?”

Eddie flushed indignantly and sat up in the hammock, crossing his arms over his chest. His forehead was dotted with sweat, and his nose scrunched up as he prepared to unleash a tirade. Even now, at the receiving end of a lecture, Richie couldn’t help but notice how damn beautiful Eddie was. 

“Richie, seriously, you can’t just show stuff like a normal person? Why’ve you got to be so damn good at this-”

“That’s what your Mom said last night.”

Eddie emitted a sound similar to a stepped-on mouse and prepared to spring on Richie, fists swinging. Richie was sure that he would be going home with a pretty shiner on his face if Bev hadn’t intervened at that moment. 

“Boys, boys, c’mon, calm down. Eddie, you know how Richie gets, and you know how to shut him up,” Bev said, eyes twinkling as she tilted her head up off the floor to wink subtly at Richie.

Okay, now Richie would be fine with the floor opening up and swallowing him whole. Maybe dirt could pour in and bury him alive at the same time. 

Eddie glowered at Richie, but reluctantly shifted over to allow Richie back onto the hammock. Richie sent Bev a quick thank-you glance (or, as grateful as Richie could possibly be) and clambered back on, making sure that Eddie got a mouthful of his shirt. 

Eddie spat it back out and wiped his mouth, jabbing Richie in the thigh. “Wash your clothes more than once a month, Tozier, they’re gross.”

“Aw, baby can’t handle the taste of pure man? Do you need your inhaler?” Richie teased, shifting to get comfortable on the hammock.

Eddie rolled his eyes and grumbled, eventually acquiescing and letting Richie settle in. He looked on with interest as Richie fiddled with the Walkman. 

“What kind of music’s on there?”   


“Dunno, Mom said that her brother’s a big 70s fan, so it’s probably a whole bunch of Elton John or some shit…”

Eddie perked up. “Oh, that’s good!”

“Yeah, you would think that’s good, you nerd.” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair and hiding his secret smile in the crook of his arm.

He produced a pair of headphones and offered one ear to Eddie. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to hear the music, but it’s worth a try, yeah?”   


Eddie smiled at Richie and took one end of the earphone, tucking himself more into Richie’s grasp. “Thanks, Richie.”

Richie allowed himself a brief moment of hyperventilation at the sensation of Eddie against him before pressing play.

A familiar female voice drifted out of the headphones. Eddie nudged Richie’s collarbone excitedly, beaming up at him. Richie could feel a small part of himself shrivel at this exposure to what must be pure heaven, before tangling his legs with Eddie’s and listening more intently.

_ And it all comes down to you… well, you know that it does… _

It’s raining, now. It pounds against the roof of Richie’s car, almost overpowering Stevie’s singing. Richie exhales with a shudder, his forehead pressed against the steering wheel. He had long stopped trying to hold the tears back. God, he thought he had gotten this over with in the lake at Derry, surrounded by the warm embrace of the remaining Losers. Recarving their initials into the bridge was supposed to be some kind of fucked-up closure. He isn’t meant to be this much of a wreck so long after it happened. He’s meant to be on top of the world right now: Richie ‘Trashmouth’ Tozier, comedian extraordinaire. 

Yet, all he can think about in his dreams and in a window’s reflection out of the corner of his eye is Eddie’s still face and slumped body against the fucking filthy rocks of the sewer, a place where Eddie doesn’t belong. It kills Richie to have left him behind in such a place. If Bill and Mike hadn’t practically carried him out, he would have gotten Eddie out or died trying. 

God, why did he leave Eddie behind?

He can’t see himself moving on. Everyone else has: Bev and Ben are happy together now, Mike’s heading to Florida for a long-overdue holiday, and Bill’s productively chugging away on his newest novel. Eddie had been his world for so long - even when he left Derry for the sparkling allure of New York, he thought about Eddie constantly. Even when his time in Derry and his fight against that stupid fucking clown had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, he never forgot the boy with his fanny pack and pocket pharmacy. Even when he made steps towards accepting who he was (he’s never told his parents or managerial team. He hasn’t even officially told the Losers, although he’s sure they’ve guess from his complete breakdown after the fight), there wasn’t a moment that went by where he didn’t wonder where Eddie was.

For fuck’s sake, after so many years, he still searched the audience and stayed behind after every show, hoping against all hope that Eddie Kaspbrak would show and realise that Richie’s not just the motormouth, he’s actually done something with his life. 

And as Richie sits there in the driver’s seat of his fancy sports car with his hands clenched and tears still trickling down his face, instead of throwing himself headlong into work to avoid dealing with what happened, he has the time to stop and ask himself:

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?


End file.
